Things About Wednesday

It's the middle. It's not the beginning. It's not the end. It's just that balancing spot - the center of gravity of the week, where the drudgery of the first part weighs itself against the relief of the coming weekend, and a chance to start all over. It's like most of my life right now. Wednesday.

My kids are halfway through growing up. They have good moments and bad moments. I am swelling with pride one minute and wallowing in despair the next. One child succeeds and lets it go to their head, another child fails and owns it tearfully in beautiful humility. Not one of them has "arrived", and Lord knows, I haven't either.

If I live to be 72, which is the exact age that my Grandma Schiffman passed away, I am halfway there. It's a good, long life. Maybe not quite long enough. But I am at the Wednesday of my life, or thereabouts, and I can tell. Because I am tired. I am a little bit bored with it, and I wish it was last Saturday. But since last Saturday has come and gone and there's no use crying over spilt milk, I am looking forward to Friday night, which I am assuming comes somewhere between my kids all starting their own lives and when I have to start worrying about grandkids and another whole generation of worries that aren't really mine but I want desperately to help fix. Those grandkids must be Sunday morning, because it's kind of an obligation, and sometimes more work than the weekend calls for, but there is something sweet and necessary and precious about it. The cool thing is, I am also a fan of Thursday, because People My Age still think that you can go do wild and crazy things on a Thursday night, like Drink Wine and Gossip, and you only have to crawl through Friday at work before you can just be done for the week. Unless somebody has Volleyball at 8 AM on Saturday. Or a Pancake Breakfast, or a Mandatory Fundraiser. My method of coping with these realities is just straight-up denial. Don't think about it. Or perhaps even block the recollection of pending responsibility. Consequences are much more meaningful when you have to endure them. And I wonder where MacKenzie gets it?

Wednesday is sweet. Sometimes, I feel like I want to savor it, because the weekend will be here before we know it, and then gone. And then it's Monday again. Monday is all of those years when I was pregnant and wearing TERRIBLE maternity clothes and getting my hair permed and forging my way through a bad marriage. I HATE Monday. Luckily, on a lifetime scale, I don't have to do that again. I hope. It's ALL good from here on out. Days I love. Nothing but relief on the other side. Not that my back won't hurt and I might not have enough money to stay at the Ritz on Friday night, but it's all downhill... right?

I guess this is the stuff that Mid Life Crises are made out of. Men are weird, because a Ferrari and a Much Younger, Hot Girlfriend doesn't sound nearly as fun as putting all of my kids up for adoption and becoming a professional tiger petter in Siberia. Siberian Tigers are beautiful. I would much rather start a Dachshund farm and eat nothing but beets than get involved with another meaningless love affair and a car that hurts to get in and out of. My midlife crisis will be manifest in the investment of copious amounts of Josh's income invested in every item of Denver Bronco's paraphernalia that Victoria's Secret produces from their child slaves in Bangladesh. Oh that sounds horrible. Ok, scratch that. My mid life crisis will be the culmination of the angst of 36 years of dodging and deflection and survival in the form of a book. I just have to figure out what my book will be about. I could really write several books. One would make you cry, one would make you laugh, one would make you ticked off and the other would send you to a loony bin, where I (hopefully) will be hanging out, with awesome drugs and padded walls and somebody telling me which pajamas to wear.

Speaking of pajamas, and mid life crises, Josh has made so many comments about my lack of "cute" jammies lately (probably due to the sheer amount of time I spend in frumpy sweatpants and his own unfulfilled penchant for frilly shorts and garter belts) that I finally got online and ordered some "cute" pajamas to wear while he is working around the house, and I am languishing on the couch. He says it will motivate him. They have nothing to do with a garter belt. But they are shorts. They are frilly. They are pink, and they are covered with wiener dogs which unquestionably qualifies them as "cute". Take that, Josh Weston. Ask and ye shall receive. And I needed jammies a few sizes bigger these days any way. *snotty look. (What???? It's Wednesday!!)

Today, Wednesday, a thousand things went wrong. I cried a little. I dumped on my sister a LOT. I yelled and I hugged and I hurt for my kids. It wasn't the best Wednesday ever. But I have my kids, even if they aren't RIGHT HERE. And they are amazing. I have my family, and they are amazing too. And I have my husband, and even if he complains about my un-cute sweatpants, he's still amazing. Even if I forget sometimes. Usually on Wednesdays. And I have my friends. The ones that can just know. And just understand. And just look forward to Thursday, and then Friday, and then SATURDAY!!!! with me. And Wednesday is a good day. Even when it's not.

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